Razor
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: James Delaney has a use for a Spanish guerrillera who's done battling the French, and has turned her sights to the East India Company. Mostly told in the form of vignettes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Were this a Sharpe crossover, I would be shamelessly ripping off Teresa Moreno. But it is not a Sharpe crossover. (I'm just being a Sharpe nerd.) Some (hopefully minor) liberties have been taken with historical fact and canonical events in the show. All mistakes are mine.**

 **I.**

It's rare that James Delaney is uncomfortable. He's grown so adept at mastery of his surroundings and the people in them that times when lack of control leaves him to flounder are few and far between. Countess Musgrove's soiree is one such occasion.

James hates crowds. He hates the formality of such gatherings, and especially hates the performance he's required to give every time he finds himself in them. Small talk and manners don't come easily to him, and he makes no effort to try. The most the situation demands is that he doesn't cause enough offense to find himself evicted before his business is done.

He's here for Carlsbad. And Zilpha. Not necessarily in that order.

The woman brushes past him swiftly. She wears a deep burgundy dress and her hair done up in an elaborate braided knot that draws his gaze to the back of her neck, a sharp scent like citrus and gunpowder catching his nose with the proximity. He could almost dismiss it as a simple consequence of the overcrowded room and the changing of dances were it not for the words whispered deliberately in his ear: sharp and piercing, almost melodic by her accent. "Ten minutes. Meet me outside. Alone."

There's probably danger. He'd been expecting that when he came.

"Who are you?" James demands when they meet, finding solitude in the courtyard around the back of the house away from the commotion of the party.

"My name is Luciana Vinuesa Carreira," she answers abruptly and to the point. "And you and I, Mr Delaney, have a common enemy."

Her facial features are sharp and draw to mind the impression of a hawk. Raven black hair, eyes so dark they might be coals. James looks at her neck. There's a scar upon it: a thick white line across her throat from ear to ear.

"Well, I judge it isn't the Americans nor the British Crown you've crossed, which leaves me to ask: what dispute have you with the East India Company?"

"Land." She stares at him without blinking. "They're attempting to take yours. They've already taken mine. I thought we may be of use to each other."

He grunts. "What land?"

"A coastal fort in New Granada, my family's property for over 100 years. The French stole the deeds during their conquest, but now Napoleon has surrendered the Spanish _will_ attempt to reclaim their territories in the Americas. Nuevos Dominios was bought from the Spanish by my Portuguese ancestors over a century ago. I need those deeds to prove ownership."

"Why do you imagine the Company can help you retrieve documents plundered by the French?"

"Because I believe they already have them in their possession." Luciana's eyes flash and she takes a step closer, fingers twitching as if holding back restrained anger. James doesn't retreat, but watches with interest. "I have reason to suspect the deeds were looted from Marshal Jourdan's baggage train after the Battle of Vitoria, before being sold on by an English infantry captain to the East India Company in exchange for a handsome sum and a Company commission."

"Do you have proof?"

"No. Which is why I need you to help me get it."

James leans closer, eyes narrowing. "If the deeds were taken from the French as part of conquest, the sale may be considered valid. In which case, proof would not help you."

"Portuguese territory was never the legal property of King Joseph, by law or by conquest, so the looting from the French amounts to nothing more than theft." Her lips twitch: almost a snarl. "Were my father alive, he would challenge it himself. But he is not, and so I come to you. You know of the Company's dealings, Mr Delaney. You have a man on the inside."

James draws a sharpened breath at the mention of Godfrey and the realisation that she knows. While her pleas are convincing, he decides to reserve judgment on their authenticity. At least he's no longer uncomfortable. "It seems to me that what you need, Miss Carreira, is a lawyer. Which I am not."

"I cannot afford a lawyer."

"Have you approached the Americans?"

"Yes. As usual, their favour lies with the French. They see little benefit to themselves in assisting me, but you, I had hoped, would sympathise."

"My sympathy, you can have for free. My help, you will have to give something in return."

She steps closer still. "Protection."

He hums, eyebrows lifting at the confidence with which she says it. "What makes you think I need the kind of protection you can offer?"

"King and Company want first your land and then your head. _You_ want Colonnade, which means you _will_ travel to the Azores. I have a band of Spanish partisans and Portuguese former soldiers stationed at Oporto awaiting my orders. At the command from me, they will sail, and you may stand a chance at reaching your destination alive."

James' suspicion takes a turn toward genuine surprise. "You are Portuguese, yet have Spanish partisans at your command?"

"My mother's family were Spanish. I resisted the French during the occupation. Will you help me, Mr Delaney?"

"If you go up against the East India Company the way you intend, you make yourself a target. Is this land worth your life?"

Luciana looks at him coolly, tilting her chin so that he sees the scar. "What makes you think the Company will succeed where many a Frenchman failed? Consider my offer, James. No need to find me again. I will come to your offices in two days to hear your answer. Good evening."


	2. Chapter 2

**II**.

The next attack comes beneath the bleeding sky of twilight at the docks. It isn't meant to be lethal. James can tell by the way his assailant attempts to stun him without going in for the kill.

He's heading for the whorehouse, taking a path through a narrow alley between the cabins where a man is digging what may be a ditch for a latrine, until a flurry of movement in the corner of James' eye as he passes says the situation is not what it seems. A shovel—the flat of it, not the edge—swings for his head.

James ducks. The metal bucket whistles past his ear while the wooden handle carries on to collide with his shoulder instead. Pain erupts along his arm, going ignored as James throws his weight into it and rams his attacker in the chest.

It's a stun and retrieve errand, he expects. They capture him, rough him up for a few days, either plant evidence or interrogate him further as they attempt to unearth his hidden powder. James can't say for sure. He hasn't mastered triple-guessing the Company's actions yet, but second-guessing is good enough. They don't appear to have informed the man of what happened to the last assassin they sent.

The man with the shovel—burly, but not much taller than James—gives a grunt, and James slides a practiced hand into his coat to swiftly draw a karambit. His first slash draws blood, less than intended as the man pulls back so that the blade slides shallowly across his collarbone, and then he punches James in the face. It draws a grunt as the tang of blood springs to James' tongue, but he moves fast, evading another attempt to render him unconscious with the shovel and aiming another cut at his assailant's hamstrings.

It lands. The man cries out and drops to his knees, but not before hooking the shovel's handle across James' neck and pulling back with both hands. The air leaves James' lungs in a short burst. He finds himself being pulled back against the man's chest, pressure mounting from the wooden pole crushing his throat.

Despite his instincts to panic and claw at his neck, James stays calm. He knows how to break a choke hold.

Turns out he doesn't need to. A sudden shot breaks the air with a crack.

The pressure against his windpipe turns slack and the body of his assailant slumps to the ground, red seeping from the messy hole blasted through its head. Drawing a heavy breath, James looks up. At the far end of the alley, musket in hand, stands Luciana, though the recognition takes a few seconds to come. She couldn't look more different from last time: her hair is down, mostly, pulled back in a partial braid that allows thick black waves to spill over her shoulders, which are themselves draped in a disheveled, dusty greatcoat. Beneath that, she wears a brown military jacket and black breeches tucked into equally black Hussar riding boots. At her belt is an ammunition pouch and powder horn.

"Good shot," he remarks, straightening up and spitting a gobbet of blood onto the ground. Flecks of blood cling to his beard.

Luciana looks disgruntled by the comment. "Six years as a _guerrillera_ , I would hope so."

"I wanted him alive."

"He wanted you dead."

"No." James eyeballs the body briefly before deciding she's more worthy of attention. "He didn't."

"Company man?"

James can't tell for certain and doesn't see the point in answering. "Have you been following me since I left the warehouse, or before that?"

"How could I be following you while you were in the warehouse? You weren't going anywhere."

"You could have hit me with that shot."

"No, I couldn't."

"You sound very certain considering such an uncertain weapon as a musket."

"It isn't a musket." She hefts the firearm, and he sees the white shadow on the ring finger of the hand gripping it where a wedding band used to lie. "Baker Rifle. English. Have I convinced you yet that I can deliver on that promise of protection?"

James gives a grunt. "Shoot sooner next time."

"Do you have an answer for me yet?"

"Still deciding."

"You have until tomorrow morning."

That gives him reason to pause. He fixes her with a hard look and strides a pace closer, voice dropping low. "And what are you going to do if tomorrow afternoon comes and you still don't have an answer from me, hm?" A dirt caked finger jabs towards her face.

Luciana clenches her jaw tighter and says nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

It isn't hard to find old soldiers at the docks. Many of them wear the guise of beggars now, but still a few cling to the dirty old red coats and white sashes, hoping that the uniform will garner a little more favour than impoverished dishevelment in any other form. James comes across one such man in the early morning, sat in the dirt beside the wharf with the left leg of his white breeches bunched and tied over a stump. An upturned shako hat lies upon the ground, a meager handful of coin populating the bottom.

The soldier's head lifts in attention when he sees James watching. "Spare a penny for an old soddy, sir?" It's said with only a small amount of hope and even less conviction.

James casts a scrutinising gaze over him as he comes to a stop. "Were you in the Peninsula?"

The man blinks up at him. "Aye."

"Did you have dealings with the Spanish _guerrillas_?"

"Those godless bastards?" A shudder runs through him. "I did."

James reaches into his coat for a coin purse. He tosses a shilling into the shako, and there's a pitiful _clink_ as it lands atop the pennies at the bottom. "Tell me about the partisans."


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

Luciana's footsteps are heavy on the stone as she enters the offices of the Delaney Trading Company. James is at his desk, at the top of a short flight of stairs several yards away. He doesn't look up as she approaches.

When she's almost before him, Luciana opens her mouth to speak, and with impeccable timing James beats her to it.

" _La Navaja._ " He says it in a way that is sharp, harsh, and not particularly Spanish. "The Razor. That's what they called you, isn't it?"

He lifts his head, fixing his gunmetal grey gaze upon her. She gazes back.

There's a pause of several seconds as the pair of them weigh each other up, then Luciana decides her business can wait a short while longer. "Do you want to know why they called me that, Mr Delaney?" The words are said with relish.

Pushing back his chair with a grating screech, James rises to step around his desk and draw closer. "The soldiers tell tales. I already know, but I can see in your eyes that you are dying to say it. So." He comes to a stop barely a foot from her, then leans closer so their noses are almost touching. "Tell me."

Luciana's black eyes bore into his. Her lips twitch. "They called me The Razor because I would skin French prisoners alive, then drag their flayed corpses behind my horse for miles until I reached the French vanguard. Then I would toss them to their comrades and watch as the pickets came out to retrieve their bodies." Her smile breaks in full sadism across her face. She turns her head and lifts her chin. "A French Dragoon tried to slit my throat with a razor, once. He paid the price."

"Hmm." James makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat. "Do you intend to punish the East India Company the same way?"

She knows what he's really asking. _Do you plan to kill Stuart Strange?_ "Do you?"

No answer. He takes a step back, turns his attention to the documents he has laid out upon his desk: legers and maps, mostly of the Americas. "Nuevos Dominios lies in the throat of the Americas, does it not?"

Luciana's eyes follow to where his finger rests on the pages. "It does."

"Of what particular interest is it to the company? Trade opportunities there pale in comparison to the north."

"There is hemp. And sugar. Establishing a trading post at the fort may benefit them."

"All that they can get in the Caribbean. Why _here_?" He taps the map. "And why would an English captain be so concerned with looting the titles to a strip of land he's never even heard of?"

Luciana is silent. He sees the muscles in her throat work as she swallows, accentuated by the scar, and then she meets his eyes. "There's a legend of a Spanish _conquistador_ who shipwrecked along the coast there some 300 years ago, not far from where the fort was later built. His ship was never found, but they say his hoard of Aztec treasure was sunk with him. If the gold was ever retrieved, it would be the rightful property of whoever has legal ownership of Nuevos Dominios."

Myth and treasure. Of course. "And now you want to secure your hold on it. You must have searched for this gold before now?"

"We did. For many generations, and then the French invaded my homeland and the colonies rose up in rebellion. The war almost bankrupted my family. We need it now more than ever."

"Do you even have proof this treasure exists?"

"No. But I have faith. As do my men."

James almost wants to sigh. What she does or doesn't believe is, he supposes, of no consequence.

"Faith is useless to me. Do you have a ship?"

"Yes. In Portugal."

"How long would it take for it to sail to London from Portugal?"

Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Because I can find use for a ship. I have powder kegs I need to transport."

"In that case, longer, I suspect, than you would like. The Portuguese among my company could be convinced, but the Spanish are proud men. They won't sail to aid an Englishman's cause unless I can first guarantee that I've secured Nuevos Dominios."

"Then it seems to me that you do not have their absolute loyalty."

Her movement is so fast that James almost doesn't catch it before he feels the press of a slender blade against his throat. _La navaja._ Luciana gazes at him calmly, though with unmistakable menace in her eyes. "I have their loyalty, Mr Delaney. But you do not yet have mine."

James doesn't move. His eyes flicker down, taking in what he can of her with their faces this close. "You're a curious leader for them to rally behind, aren't you, Miss Carreira? English gun, French boots, Spanish blade. What's that uniform you're wearing? Prussian?"

" _Cazador_." Her tone is indignant. "Portuguese elite."

"Hmm." He glances down once more at the brown jacket, and then at the hand bearing the mark of an absent wedding ring. "So where does that leave you? Are you Portuguese? Are you Spanish? Whose loyalty do you have the right to command?"

"The loyalty of any man who shares my goals. What about you, James? Are you English? African? A savage?"

His gaze hardens briefly. Slowly, James reaches up to push the blade away. "I will make you a deal, Luciana," he says, sweeping a hand over the maps on the desk. "In exchange for what you want, here is what I offer: I intend to sail for Nootka Sound first via Ponta Delgada before making the Atlantic crossing, and then stop for supplies in the Caribbean. You will accompany me as far as Kingston. From there, if it pleases you, we will travel south and drop your company at Nuevos Dominios. You will buy my ship from me and my crew will cross Panama by land to procure a new ship on the West Coast, thus avoiding a lengthy voyage around the tip of Argentina. But I want a trade agreement."

Luciana has lowered her folding knife and is watching him closely. "Go on."

"Hemp and sugar would be more valuable to my company than powder alone. I want exclusivity on any trading you establish at the post for the first year before renegotiations can take place. And a share of the gold, should you find it."

He has little belief in that last part, but it's hardly of import. Luciana's jaw clenches. "I can agree to all that _if_ , and only if, you acquire for me absolute, legal ownership of Nuevos Dominios before your plan to sail for America comes to fruition."

James nods. "I'll tell my man at the Company to look for evidence of the deeds to your land, but I won't compromise my own interests for yours."

"Tell him to look into the commission of Company Major Jonathan Harries, formerly a captain of the 69th Regiment of Foot. I believe he made the sale. If it can be proven the documents were looted, then the law and Lord Wellington may be inclined to take my side."

Everything is coming together. Satisfied, James crosses back around to the other side of his desk and takes a seat. "Come back to me in a week, and I'll inform you of any progress Mr Godfrey has made."

Luciana remains standing before him, scrutinising the documents he's left in plain view. "And what of this powder you intend to trade?"

James looks up, and decides he has another use for her.


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

Luciana is there to inspect the progress of the powder. She nods in satisfaction at the steady churning of the vats, the product still in the stages of thick black goop as Cholmondley's chemistry does its slow, slow work.

Robert is growing tired. Luciana sees his eyelids drooping and extends a hand. He surrenders control of the churn gladly, though he lingers to watch her with wary eyes.

"Do you know Mr Delaney well?" The boy's voice is small and anxious.

If Luciana shares the nervousness of the other labourers, she doesn't show it. "No better than you, Robertito."

"They say he eats human flesh."

"Yes, the English have quite the taste for it." She chuckles. "We used to cut the buttocks and thighs off of dead Frenchman and sell them to the English as pork."

Robert's eyes widen in horror.

"Did it taste as good as pork?"

The voice takes them both by surprise. Luciana glances back over her shoulder without breaking rhythm, one eyebrow creeping higher as she sees James watching them from the doorway. "Better. We called it Frogs' legs. It's a French delicacy." A wide grin has settled on her face. She's laughing at her own joke.

James is amused. He doesn't let her see.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

The powder isn't ready. They're transporting it anyway. Luciana stands by one of the vats waiting to be emptied into kegs, rifle slung across her shoulder as she dips a fingertip into the black grit and lifts it to her lips. The taste is salty on her tongue. Impressive. And satisfying.

James watches with interest as she takes the powder horn from her belt and empties its contents into the vat, before scooping up some of Cholmondley's fresh powder instead.

"That may still explode, you know," he remarks.

"Maybe." She shrugs, securing the horn back to her belt. "But it will add a couple hundred yards to my range."

They almost have the wagons ready to leave when she approaches him again, in the barn after all the labourers have left.

"Here. Wear this."

Luciana thrusts the cloth sack towards him and James takes it off her, mildly surprised by the weight of it. Inside, he finds a tarnished metal breastplate and corresponding backplate, bearing the dents and marks of battle. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Took it off a French Cuirassier at Bussaco," she elaborates. "Wear it tonight. If anything goes wrong, you need to live more than any of your men."

"If anything goes wrong, a cuirass won't save me from hanging."

"It will save you if they start shooting. It's saved my life on the battlefield before."

James grunts sceptically, but nonetheless buckles on the breastplate beneath his woollen cloak.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII.**

The bullet that thumps at his chest knocks the wind out of him and sends him crumpling to the floor. Momentarily stunned, James gasps, fingers clawing at his ribs as he feels the frayed edges of the hole in his cloak. He tugs at the fabric, lifting until he can cast a dazed glance over the steel breastplate and take in the fresh dent punched in deep. Already he knows the flesh will have blossomed purple beneath his tattoos when he later takes a look.

 _It would have pierced my heart,_ he thinks, _were it not for the cuirass._

There's barely time for him to contemplate how easily his whole plan—and his life—could have been snuffed out before he feels a hand grasping at his shoulder and tugging him to his feet. He hears Luciana's voice shouting at him in that strange combination of a Spanish and Portuguese accent.

"James, let's go! They're sending soldiers to investigate."

They've drawn the attention of the guards at the docks. Sporadic muzzle flashes and shouts sound from the scattered militia in further threat to James' secrecy, the powder offloaded and his party now attempting a retreat. In a premature assumption of success, the men have grown careless. The cholera story won't wash if soldiers come to investigate burglary in a warehouse.

Breathing heavily, James allows Luciana to pull him to his feet as their company flee like shadows through the dark.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII.**

The traitor runs. He has a head start as he flees the farm, _knowing_ that James Delaney knows and the sanctuary of the East India Company is the only thing that can save him now.

James stands at the stone bridge crossing the stream and watches him flee across the fields, Luciana at his side. She unslings the rifle from her shoulder and begins to prime the pan.

"If you can't get him from here, I'll fetch my horse," James says flatly.

"I can." She's taken a musket ball from her ammunition pouch and is wrapping it in a greased leather patch before inserting it into the barrel, followed by powder from her horn and then the ramrod. She isn't in a hurry, but her actions are practiced and efficient as she hoists the rifle to her shoulder, cocks, and takes aim.

Only a few seconds pass before she confirms her mark and fires, sparks crackling in the pan to stain her cheek with soot. James sees it from a distance as the man drops.

"Hip shot," Luciana says casually. "I expect he's still alive, if you want to deal with him."

James grunts his thanks and goes to fetch his horse.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX.**

She fights like a soldier. King's men are marching on the docks and Luciana holds poised and steady behind their barricade, rifle primed for when they break through. She only has one shot and makes it count, putting a bullet through an officer's head before the fight enters close quarters and the weapon becomes too slow and cumbersome to be useful.

In its place, she draws her sword. 1796 pattern light cavalry sabre, British, curved for use on horseback, but she utilises it on foot to devastating effect. Several men fall in a bloody, brutal melee before she heeds James' commands to fall back to the ship.

She's never slaughtered soldiers wearing red before. A strange, unexpected feeling of guilt creeps surreptitiously into her stomach, and she ignores it.

Cholmondley falls to his own explosive. They lose Helga. Many others. Luciana knows almost none of them by name. She recognises the redhead and the whore only by face.

It's a heavy butcher's bill by the time they cast off anchor and the _Good Hope_ flees the docks and sails for the Thames Estuary, seeking the sanctuary and freedom of the sea. It won't be the last battle they fight. James Delaney has a price on his head.

Bloodstained and exhausted, Luciana finds James on the poop deck some time later, after the surviving casualties have been tended as best they can. "Tell me Strange handed over the deeds before I did this," she says wearily. "And you haven't made a fool out of me."

He turns away from the wheel to survey her for a moment, expression unreadable, and then reaches silently into his coat to take out a small leather document tube. He holds it towards her.

It might be fake. Too late for it to make any difference now. Luciana closes her fingers around it and an unexpected sense of trust makes her sigh in relief.

"Did you send word to your men?" James asks gruffly, looking out to sea.

"Yes. Told them to meet us in Ponta Delgada, though I never received confirmation before we left. Don't suppose I will now."

"No. Let us hope they chose to obey."

She peers at him, studying his profile closely, turned away from her so that the sunset casts his features into pink-tinged shadow. The lines of his face are hard and formidable. Like his soul. A suitable whetstone to a fine razor.

Luciana retreats below deck to get some much needed sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**X.**

Luciana's ship isn't there when the _Good Hope_ makes port at Ponta Delgada. "They're coming," she tells James, the both of them knowing the _Isabella_ sailing from Oporto ought to have arrived more than a week before.

"They are coming," she repeats two days later when James finds her on one of the bastions overlooking the harbour, brass telescope in hand as she watches the ships coming into port.

He comes to stand beside her and gazes down at the sunlight scattering off of blue-green waves, before tarred hulls break them into foam. "You've witnessed a test of my men's loyalty," he grunts. "Now I'll stand witness to yours."

Luciana lowers the telescope and shoots him a hard, sidelong glance. "Fighting the French for more than six years cost us almost everything, Mr Delaney. Were it not for Bonaparte, we'd have crushed the rebellion in the colonies. My men will follow me because they want to take back what is ours."

"They follow you because you've promised them Aztec gold. If the gold does not reveal itself, will the Spanish among your company be so willing to place Nuevos Dominios into Portuguese hands?"

"I am both Portuguese and Spanish. The arrangement is agreeable."

"Not to the rebels."

Annoyed, Luciana clenches her jaw and returns her attention to the harbour. "What about you, James?" she asks, adjusting the focus on the spyglass. "What will you do if you make landfall in Nootka Sound only to find that in your absence, someone else has already laid claim?"

"I'll claim it back."

"With what army?"

"I won't need an army."

That drops her gaze from the spyglass again. Her eyes narrow. "You will not buy my men from me, James. Nor bribe them."

"Indeed, that would be quite the feat when they are not even here."

She glares, but he continues.

"If they have not arrived by the time my business in Ponta Delgada concludes, I will sail without you. Unless you are prepared to accept the invitation of a place on my ship. On my terms."

"No need," Luciana says coldly. She thrusts the telescope at his chest and jerks her head towards the sea, where the silhouette of a tall frigate has breached the horizon. "They're here."


	11. Chapter 11

**XI.**

"Commandante Vinuesa."

The man who steps off the boarding ramp is tall and lean, with a face lined more by hardship than age, though the look is balanced by the youthful darkness of his goatee and mustache. Black curls creep out from beneath his tan cocked hat, which he tips to Luciana in an informal salute.

"Raul." She nods in acknowledgement, though her eyes are narrowing in concern as she watches the remaining crew disembark. "Where are the rest of you?"

"Gone back to Salamanca with Don Carlos."

"What?"

"Most of the Spanish decided this was too great a risk. The voyage wasn't worth staking their fortunes on. I'm sorry."

From a few paces behind, James watches the tension rise in Luciana's shoulders. They're speaking Portuguese, though he understands more than he reveals. Zilpha's mother—his stepmother, for a few brief years of childhood—hailed from Vimiero.

"Why the delay?"

"Barely enough of us left to form a skeleton crew. We sailed to Lisbon in the hopes of making up numbers. Some discharged soldiers have joined us, though fewer than we lost—many English, when your gentleman from London was mentioned."

Luciana grunts, displeased, though it's better than having no crew at all. She turns to James, switching to English, and doesn't reveal the Spaniards' desertion. "James, this is Raul da Silva, my lieutenant. Raul, James Delaney."

Raul nods and salutes. "Captain."

Luciana pulls a face. James can barely keep his amusement off of his own. He wonders what she told them about a 'gentleman from London'.

"We'll be escorting his ship across the Atlantic," Luciana continues, failing to hide her pout as she nods in the direction of the _Good Hope_ anchored in port. "The East Indiaman. It no longer flies Company colours, so be careful to whom you speak of it."

Raul nods his understanding, and turns a friendly gaze to James. James watches the disembarking sailors, and sees more men he has use for.

"I need half your powder," Luciana says later in a dingy tavern room over supper, and still doesn't mention the disloyal Spaniards.

"You'll have what you need. I keep control of the powder."

"My ship has two gun decks. You want protection against the King's Navy once we reach the Caribbean, you'll give me half your powder."

"It's a long way to the Caribbean."

"And the powder can't be moved at sea. We need to load it now."

"Do you not have sufficient powder of your own, or did the Spanish take it with them?"

Luciana's jaw clenches so hard he hears her teeth grinding. " _Bastardo Ingles."_

"You may have enough powder to fill your horn," James concedes, tearing unconcernedly into a fresh hunk of bread. "The rest stays with me."


	12. Chapter 12

**XII.**

James has walked in Luciana's dreams before.

He never lets her know he's there, save for a fleeting glimpse: a passing thought that leads her to wonder why James Delaney should have taken root so deeply in her head. Through her dreams, he learns her secrets, and finds the frayed ends of new mysteries he has yet to unravel.

In Luciana's mind, James stands upon the dusty slopes of the Pyrenees; hears the echo of a choir in the great cathedral at Salamanca; smells the blood and smoke of battlefields he never fought upon. He lingers at the edges of her nightmares and plays voyeur to her fantasies: a soldier in blue with a wide grin and missing teeth, laughing with a razorblade in hand; flayed bodies kicking up plumes of dust as they trail in the dirt.

On many occasions, James sees a man in a uniform the same shade of deep, dark green as his eyes, and then watches the green turn to red in a sudden flash of silver from the sky. He sees entwined fingers coated in blood and dirt and counts two gold rings.

James feels a longing in Luciana's dreams. The longing isn't for him.


	13. Chapter 13

**XIII.**

James keeps his word. He allows Luciana sufficient powder for her horn. His only surprise is that she takes him up on it.

"You were right," she confesses, scooping up the black grit from the kegs. "I shouldn't have trusted the Spanish."

"I never said you shouldn't have trusted the Spanish."

"You didn't have to say it. You made it perfectly clear." She heaves a sigh and places the cap back onto the horn, turning to face him as she leans back against the barrels of powder. "I should have known. They'd already stung me once. 1807: my mother's people invading my father's country. They came via Almeida, on the border. I called it home before. After, it was never home again."

James looks at her: a candle flame flickering as it reaches the end of its wick. "My father's people slaughtered most of my mother's. Now I go to her land, as you go to your father's."

"Slaughter. Hm." She hums, folding her arms across her chest. "There was slaughter, once the Portuguese rose up in rebellion. My father and brother died at the hands of the French. When they turned on the Spanish and marched on Salamanca I ought to have laughed: that's what you get for trusting Bonaparte. I couldn't laugh. _This_ was still healing."

James watches her point to her throat. He studies the scar closely and recalls the face of the Frenchman that haunts her nightmares. "What did you do once it healed?"

"I joined the conquerors who had become the conquered and called myself a Spaniard." She shrugs. "Not sure what that really means anymore, truth be told. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have been born English. I married an Englishman, once. This was his." She holds up the rifle. "The French killed him too."

"Don't imagine that were you English you should have fared better. Your allies would still betray you; your family still disappoint you, and misery still find you regardless of who you call King."

She fixes him with a hard look and raises an eyebrow. "Is that why you want to be an American?"


End file.
